


like the stars (we burn forever)

by solitariusvirtus, tenten_d



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, King!Jon, Marriage, Targaryen!Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 17:09:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3986128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenten_d/pseuds/tenten_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every King needs a Queen. And once he has her, it falls to both to make the best of their situation.</p><p>AU! Jon becomes King of the Seven Kingdoms and Margaery is crowned a fourth time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Netherlands12](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Netherlands12).



> Very short ficlet I was asked to write. Hope you enjoy it Netherlands12.

i. Lady Sansa Stark, Acting Warden of the North, looks upon him with kinder eyes than ever he has seen upon her. Perhaps it is the knowledge that he is not proof of Eddard Stark’s betrayal to her mother, or mayhap life has taught her among many other a lesson that shame is only where one perceives it. “I cast my vote in favour of Jon Targaryen,” she says. “The Dragon Queen left him as her heir, and I would not gainsay her will.”

From somewhere outside, Drogon lets out a roar, a cry of desperation and anguish at the loss of its mother. The Reach supports his claim as well. The Westerlands seem to hesitate. Left without much of a leader, during Daenaerys’ reign the noble houses of the West had squabbled among themselves, and the victors, the Lannisters of Lannisport, are but a shadow of the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. In the end, however, they too speak for Jon. Dorne objects, naturally. But the Stormlands, led by Shireen Baratheon, have no such qualms. The Iron Born have no say in it, as Lord Tully speaks for them now. Young Lord Arryn, under the influence of Lady Sansa, casts his vote in his favour too.

And Jon finds himself released from oaths. Jon Snow died, he tells himself, on those blood filled fields of snow. Jon Targaryen has just begun his existence.

It is decided then. He is to be king. He is to do what others have failed before him to do.

ii. Margaery the trice wedded they call her. They whisper behind her back, and those who are brave enough speak it to her face. She tells herself that it does not matter. She played little part in the death of any of her husbands. Renly was felled by a shadow, Joffrey swallowed poison and Tommen, poor Tommen whom she still regrets to this very day, died upon his throne with an arrow in the chest.

They call her a witch, because surely, surely it cannot be that she is innocent when all her husbands have been laid in the ground. There must be something wrong. She must have had a hand in it. Margaery tries not to let it affect her. But that is impossible.

She is innocent of any wrongdoing. She knows that. But it won’t save her, nor will it stave the foul tongue of the realm. So she can but endure.

When her father comes to her, saying that she will leave for court once more, Margaery is fear stricken. “Hasn’t it been enough, father?” But it never is. Enough.

If only her grandmother yet lived to talk him out of such folly. But she doesn’t. So Margaery is made ready for yet another nightmare. Who in their right mind would wed her, with her shorn locks and the three buried husbands? But she is made to go and had little say in it. Not even Willas seems willing to hear her out.

“We must do what is best for our House,” her brother tells her.

iii. Jon Targaryen is not what she expected. He does not sneer at her. Nor does he smile. He doesn’t even blink when she is introduced to him. He does, however, nod slowly, his eyes ever assessing, as if he is trying to determine her worth. Taking heart at that Margaery forgets for a moment the reality of her situation.

Margaery the trice wedded some will say behind her, but she doesn’t hear; she doesn’t care, for the man sitting the throne does not look particularly concerned that she might end him where he sits. It is a nice feeling, she reckons, not to have people fear her.

He is a quiet man, not shy like Tommen, nor plotting like Joffrey, not even disinterested like Renly. He just is. Quiet. She likes that. Margaery finds herself watching him every time he happens in her path. Sometimes, Willas will allow her to come with him to Council meetings. The King never raises an eyebrow at her presence. And when she feels brave, she will volunteer ideas of her own. Which are taken into discussion by King Jon.

(She doesn’t know it, of course, and would not admit it even if she did, but Margaery is developing tender feelings for her ruler. And perhaps it is not the very worst thing that she has been marshalled to court once more.)

Willas, she notices, will even try to encourage her interventions at times.

He hopes the King will be impressed. Secretly, she hopes that too.

iv. Sansa Stark used to be her friend once. It seems like a lifetime ago. Margaery finds herself looking at the woman, with her long tumbling river of blood-red hair, and feels envy stirring within her when the King leans just so towards her, as if to better catch her words. Margaerys fingers her own short hair, longer now, almost near her shoulders. 

Whatever they speak of, Jon stops talking abruptly. He turns to her. The shock of it nearly sends her running. “Lady Margaery, I have not seen you sit my Council today.” How strange that he should have noticed. Surely he has better things to do.

“Apologies, Your Grace. I was,” she hesitates but a moment, “unwell.” Today is the anniversary of Tommen’s death. She makes a point to be unwell on it. It feels like the right thing to do. Sansa gives her an odd little smile, as if she knows. She shouldn’t know. Margaery hates this. She doesn’t want the pity of someone who has regained all that she has lost.

The King leaves her be, turning back to his conversation with his cousin. They are close. Very close. Some even whisper that Sansa will follow the path of her aunt and wed a Targaryen. They look at ease with one another.

It shouldn’t bother her. But it does.

(To the point where she burns with it.)

One of the King’s pets comes speeding past her. The white wolf turns to look at her, ruby eyes glinting. Somewhere behind, she hears the dragons cry.

v. ”Why her?” Sansa asks him. There is not an ounce of jealousy in her voice. They may whisper all they want about them. Jon knows that she, like him, holds nothing of the love of lovers. Sansa has outgrown such dreams, her own words, and Jon never held them when it came to her.

“The Tyrells are strong and wealthy. And I need allies. The North is far away.” The explanation elicits a nod from his cousin. It comes as a surprise, how easy acceptance is, of change, of everything. “You knew her once.”

“She is a good woman,” Sansa says. “They say she is cursed though.”

“Aren’t we all?” he offers. She laughs, the agreement somewhere in there. “I need a wife who will shoulder the burdens of ruling with me. At least she knows how to do it. She served as Queen to three Kings.”

“So you are determined.” Acting Warden of the North, Sansa has an edge to her. Jon appreciates that. “Have at it, then. Margaery Tyrell is not the worst possible choice. Though I am sure you shall have little enough peace when the announcement is made.”

“Peace,” he repeats slowly. “You must have the truth of it. But I never truly had peace, so I reckon it shan’t be that much of a bother.”

“You know best, Your Grace,” comes the answer. “But come to a decision soon, I cannot wait much longer to return to Rickon.”

And he wishes he could return with her, to Winterfell. Jon sighs.


	2. Chapter 2

i. He comes to her with Willas. Her brother bids her to sit and Margaery, who had stood to her feet to greet the King properly, slides back into her chair, her breath coming in odd short gasps. The wolf slinks in after his master, quiet as a ghost.

“Lady Margaery,” Jon Targaryen begins, his face, not quite stern, but rather unhappy, “I wish to speak to you upon an important matter.” She waits, without a word. Jon takes it as a sign to continue. “As you are well aware, the realm has suffered a few great blows these past few years. There is a great need for stability.” Aye, all that she does know. Margaery can sense what is coming, she is no fool.

(Her heart is like a bird, struggling to break through the cage of her ribs. It actually hurts for a few moments and Margaery had to remind herself to breathe. With a great deal of effort she suck in a long breath.)

“I would be much obliged to you, my lady, should you be willing to become Queen alongside me and aid in restoring the kingdom to its glory.” She understands why he asks. And she is glad he has. But at the same time she isn’t.

She looks down at the ground, or rather his boots. A long moment of silence stretches between them. Willas clears his throat, a reminder of her duty. And then her eyes jump to his face. “I shall wed you, Your Grace, if it be your will.”

ii. Three husbands past girlhood and a war for survival later, Margaery is as much a maiden as she had been when she had slid forth from within her mother’s womb. It is a very strange notions, to be sure, to have been trice wedded but never bedded.

Renly wouldn’t, Joffrey didn’t and Tommen couldn’t. She does not begrudge her first husband his romantic inclinations. She is ever so glad that her second partner found his end at the bottom of a glass wine. She thinks it a mercy that her poor third spouse never claimed her maidenhead. It would have made suffering after him all the worse; yet Tommen had been a boy, a sweet child, who had known naught of a duties of a man to his wife.

They had cut her hair for promiscuity, but Margaery has known none. They had called her a wicked creature, but she hadn’t been. Margaery had been ambitious. Renly she wedded for his crown and the pleasure it afforded to Loras. Joffrey became her husband at her father’s behest. Tommen she took because war was at their gates and he was the safest option.

Jon she will wed because she wants to. Certainly her father wills her to be Queen. It is true that Willas is proud for the same reason. But this time, Margaery knows she can refuse if she so wants. And she doesn’t want to. She wants Jon and his quiet strength.

For a maiden she might be, but she knows her heart well enough by now.

iii. There is little in the way of celebration; mainly because there is not much left anyway. Margaery is well pleased with what is. She looks down upon her dress, the emerald green and intricate lace comfortable. This is her armour. Knights have chainmail and plates of steel. She has dresses and smiles and the pride of her house behind her.

The High Septon looks uncomfortable. Her husband too. But they both understand that it must be done. She thinks it is rather the attention of all those behind them which so puts Jon on edge. He does not like crowds. 

Their hands are bound together and the Septon speaks to them and to the gathering. It takes a short vow from each and suddenly no longer Jon Targaryen and Margaery Tyrell, but the King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. It feels no different from wedding Renly, or Joffrey, or Tommen. But it is. Different.

(Her cloak falls in the arms of her brother and the dragon rests upon her back after, fierce and menacing. And she feels it. To the marrow of her bones.)

There is a cheer. More to please the King, she thinks, than to express joy. Curious eyes look at the royal couple. They are wondering when the skies shall fall upon their ruler, counting in their minds, no doubt.

For her part Margaery prays the merciful Mother than she keep this husband alive. If only to prove wrong the insolent creatures, standing there ravenous for a disaster.

iv. She trembles like a doe. Jon isn’t certain if fear makes her skittish or if it is regret. It is too late for either though. They are alone, together, in the vast bedchamber meant to hold the king. For a moment, the memory Ygritte comes to him, as she was in the cave, as she was last he saw her. Jon shakes it away, prying himself loose of that regret. Ygritte is gone, so is the cave.

He holds a hand out towards her and from outside some bard sings that the Queen of the song is removing her kirtle. Margaery steps towards him with something very similar to trust. She places her hand in his and steps as close to him as she can without actually touching their bodies together.

Jon lowers his lips to hers. A test, he tells himself. She is soft and pliant and sweet. There is no fight in her. Perhaps that is what moves him; the gentleness. There has been so little of it in his life. Passion and tumult have been aplenty. It is time for tenderness to rule, its domain close at hand.

Her arms wrap around his neck, tender but not lacking affection. This is his Queen and somehow it all fits together. There is no feeling of displacement when they lie abed together, nor is there regret in their soft movements. There is understanding. And there is the promise of something more.

It is enough to build a life upon. 

v. There is little he can think about but the woman in the room. Her screams have dwindles down to an impatience-filled silence and Jon barely holds himself back from pacing the length of the corridor. Instead he stress at the door as if that might result in it opening. It doesn’t quite work like that, of course.

(But nobody ever told him it would be such agony. The wondering. Uncertainty is among his least favourite things. Jon clenches his fist. It would do no good to lose himself in fear.)

And then, after what seems like a thousand years, the door springs open and the Grand Maetser strides into the hall. “Your Grace,” he says, the look on his face not telling Jon a thing. “The Queen is ready to receive you.”

Margaery has been propped up against a wall of pillows and in her arms she cradles a quiet little lump of flesh and bone wrapped in clean linens. Jon approaches with caution, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He looks at the tiny human in his wife’s arms and a smile steals over his face. When he gazes at the mother, he sees her eyes shining with tears.

He can feel it to, welling inside of him, the desire to shed tears of joy. He wraps an arm about her shoulders and she leans into him. They sit like that for a moment.

“Your son,” she presents the child.

“Our son,” Jon corrects softly. 

Outside, wings are flapping and wolves are howling.


End file.
